


Hatchling

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Baby Animals, Caretaking, Chocobos, Fluff, Gen, Ignis is the Mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 15:19:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: "Hey, little guy," says Prompto, and crouches down. "You miss me?" The chocobo chick responds by throwing itself into him, so hard he flails and topples over, landing in the dust.It takes the opportunity to settle itself in his lap, growing round and fluffy and pleased. Prompto scritches its head with a finger, and it tilts its neck sideways, nuzzling into the contact.Prompto looks up at Ignis. "Can we keep him?"





	Hatchling

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely anon on the kink meme who wanted: 
> 
> Prompto happens to be around when an egg hatches and whoops whaddaya know now it's imprinted on him and thinks he's its mama and following him everywhere and can we keep it pleasepleaseplease? *puppy eyes*

"Guys, c'mon," says Prompto. "You can't be serious! Wiz says it's going to hatch any minute now!"

He's standing in the caravan doorway, hair a sleep-mussed disaster that's sticking up every which way at odd angles. He's in an old t-shirt, the snappy words on the front long since faded to illegibility, and his sleep shorts, iron grey speckled with happy yellow birds and gysahl greens.

Gladio, draped over the couch, cracks open an eye at him. "No one's stopping you," he says.

Ignis, in his sleeping bag in the caravan's narrow walkway, taps his phone to life. "Prompto," he says, like a parent reminding a child, gently, that crayons are not edible. "You do realize it's three in the morning."

Noctis, an unmoving lump in the caravan's bunk, says nothing at all.

From outside the door, Wiz says, "If you're coming, you'd best hurry. Nature waits for no man."

"Right," says Prompto. He casts about for a minute for something to cover his bare feet – seizes Ignis' slippers and slides them on. "Gonna borrow these," he calls. "Back in a few!"

Then, before Ignis has the chance to give permission or deny it, he's bounding down the caravan's stairs, swinging the door closed behind him.

The nest with the egg in it is around back.

Wiz stands there, easy and nonchalant; Prompto shifts anxiously from foot to foot. When the egg twitches and jumps, he crouches down to get a better look.

One side of the shell shifts and pulses, and a tiny segment breaks free. Prompto flaps one hand toward Wiz. "Look," he says, "Look, it's starting."

Wiz stifles a smile. "That it is."

They watch as pieces crumble – as something pushes out from the inside. Prompto's holding his breath.

"Go on, then," Wiz says. "You can lend a hand."

So Prompto reaches out with careful fingers. He lifts away a fragment of shell. There's something knobbly and pink inside, covered with stringy wisps of sodden yellow, and it presses itself out and into his hands.

Prompto laughs, delighted. "Aww," he says. "Look at the little guy. They're so ugly when they're all new and wet." He leans in, the grin on his face giving the lie to the words. "Who's my ugly baby bird? You are. Yes, you are."

The tiny chocobo likes him; that much is plain. It nestles in his hands, and when he makes to put it down, it cries "kweh, kweh," in a high, trembling sort of voice. So he holds it while Wiz brings the food – a syringe of macerated gysahl greens – and shows Prompto how to feed it.

"Real shame about the mother," says Wiz.

"Why?" says Prompto, and looks up, eyes wide, as he indulges the hungry baby bird. "What happened to the mother?"

"Got offed by a voretooth not two weeks ago. Real shame."

Prompto stares down at the scrawny thing in his palm. His face falls, and for a moment, he's quiet. Then the smile struggles its way back, with effort. "Don't worry, little guy," he tells the chocobo. "We're gonna take good care of you."

 

* * *

 

They're at the ranch for two more days; there are plenty of hunts in the area, something their empty pockets and sickly budget sorely need.

Prompto spends his down time near the nest while the baby chocobo sleeps, lying on his stomach and kicking his feet in the air, taking close-up after close-up. When it cries for food, he feeds it. When he leaves, it hops to its feet and runs after him, calling out in its high, warbly voice.

The second night, Noct finds the thing curled up in one of Prompto's spare shirts, sleeping peacefully on the caravan's counter.

"What?" says Prompto, defensive. "Wiz said it was okay. Besides, it's cold out there."

But even their financial woes can't keep them at the ranch forever.

"Bye, buddy," says Prompto, and scritches the little bird's head when they go. "See you later, okay? Be good."

 

* * *

 

It's a week before they're back in the area.

The Regalia rolls up in a cloud of road dust, and four doors open at once so that the exhausted group can get out and stretch.

The chocobos in the outdoor pens turn disinterested eyes on them. Near the store, a woman in overalls is feeding the chicks handfuls of tiny carrot chunks, and five small yellow heads glance up at the sound of wheels on gravel. Four of them return to their meal. The fifth, though. The fifth calls, "Kweh!" and takes off across the packed dirt with its tiny wings spread, as though it means to fly.

"Would you look at that," Noct remarks, drily, as the chocobo dances around Prompto's feet. "It remembered you."

"Hey, little guy," says Prompto, and crouches down. "You miss me?" The chocobo chick responds by throwing itself into him, so hard he flails and topples over, landing in the dust.

It takes the opportunity to settle itself in his lap, growing round and fluffy and pleased. Prompto scritches its head with a finger, and it tilts its neck sideways, nuzzling into the contact.

Prompto looks up at Ignis. "Can we keep him?"

"We can scarcely afford to feed ourselves," says Ignis, and thinks that will be the end of it.

But at dinner, trout skewer in one hand and the other stroking the down on the baby bird in his lap, Prompto says, "What if I took side jobs? I could pay for the greens."

Ignis says, "Absolutely not."

But at bedtime, there's a small yellow ball curled up in Prompto's sleeping bag, and he says, "What about if when we rent chocobos, I rent this one instead? I could totally keep up with you guys on foot."

"Good gods," Gladio mutters from the couch.

Noctis, not quite asleep in the bunk, laughs softly.

"Prompto," says Ignis. "No."

But in the morning, while they're packing up the car, Prompto says, "Okay, what if we don't buy special feed? I'll share my dinner. They eat veggies, right?"

Ignis fixes him with a flat stare. "I won't have you starving yourself on behalf of a bird," he says, firmly.

But five miles out on the open road, Noctis says, "What's that noise?"

And Gladio says, "Sounds like it's coming from the trunk."

When they pull over, the little chocobo looks up at them, nestled in between travel packs. "Kweh," it says, hopefully.

"Dude," says Prompto. "That wasn't me."

Ignis pinches the bridge of his nose like a headache's coming on.

 

* * *

 

 

It really isn't Prompto.

The tiny chocobo packs about as much determination as can possibly be crammed into a pint-sized ball of yellow fluff.

Every time they visit Wiz's ranch, it stows away in their luggage, or under the seats, or in the cooler with Ignis' cans of Ebony. Once, it chases the Regalia for a full mile until Ignis turns the car around, with a weary sigh, to bring it back.

"This can't continue," Ignis says one day, after the little chocobo appears in the caravan's kitchen to abscond with a carrot intended for the night's stew. "And surely Wiz is upset, as well. He's no idea where his bird is half the time."

Gladio snorts. "If he hasn't figured it out by now, he's got bigger problems."

Ignis fixes Gladio with a look sharp enough to pin him like a butterfly in a glass case. He holds the stare while he says, "Do talk to him, won't you, Prompto? We need to sort this out."

Prompto ducks his head. He bites at his lip. He says, "Okay." 

And after dinner he heads out with the chocobo in his arms, a lot less spring in his step than usual.

When he comes back, the bird's still cradled in his arms, but there's a sheepish, delighted sort of grin trying to spread over his face. "Wiz says I can keep it," says Prompto.

Ignis rubs the bridge of his nose, carefully.

"Oh, c'mon, Specs," says Noct. "Let him live a little. The thing can eat my vegetables. Not like I do, anyway."

"He's got a point," Gladio puts in, mildly, and turns a page in his book.

"Please?" says Prompto.

There's a long silence, during which Prompto holds his breath and the chocobo squirms in his arms, not knowing its fate hangs in the balance.

"Oh, very well," Ignis says at last.

Prompto crows with delight, putting on an impromptu sort of victory dance. In his arms, the chocobo flaps its wings, not knowing what all the excitement's about, but definitely not wanting to miss out.

 

* * *

 

Ignis does a quick once-over of their packing job the following morning, as he does every day. They have the tent, and the camp stove, and their supply of curatives. They have the small packs that hold their personal belongings. And there, in the back seat, nestled between Noctis and Prompto, they have a small yellow chocobo.

The bird has a bag of greens for snacking, and a water dish in case it gets thirsty during the ride. It looks very well-pleased with itself.

"We're all set, then?" says Ignis, as he slides into the driver's seat.

"Ready," says Prompto.

"Ready," says Gladio.

"Hit it, Specs," says Noct.

And as he steps on the gas, their newest traveling companion says, "Kweh."


End file.
